


A Made Man

by lapenserosa



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Far-fetched Explanations, Fighting, M/M, Shifting Alliances, breaking up, meandering plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapenserosa/pseuds/lapenserosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ring on the little finger can mean many things or nothing at all. Over time it has been used to denote homosexual interests or affiliations, extravagant style, or darker ties to the underbelly of society and organized crime.  Either way, for Dean, it has always come with trouble.</p><p>(Or what results when this author spends too much times staring at and over-thinking old publicity stills)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Made Man

When he'd bought the black-stone ring and presented it to his partner of three years it went with beautiful words and joyous kisses. Dean was so proud how'd he'd kept it a secret until they found themselves with some peace. He'd hidden it in a pillow, slipping his hand into the sheet to retrieve it when his breath was still shallow and they were sticking to each other in a mix of perspiration and ecstasy.

It had all come about the last weekend they'd spent together; kids playing together under their wives careful gaze as the sun warmed the green grass that the children frolicked through. They'd finished writing and Dean was fishing through Jerry's fridge for a drink.

"Now I think you're just cooling off in there," Jerry laughed.

"Can't find what I'm looking for."

Jerry bumps Dean out of the way with a playful shove of his hips. He doesn't even need to look back to know Dean's eyes are on him. Jerry sways his hips, humming one of Dean's songs, and begins to bang about in the fridge even though he already has his eyes on the drinks they wanted.

When Dean grabs the center of Jerry's shirt and pulls him backward Jerry makes sure to emerge with the drinks in his hands. He can't resist and exclaims in pain, feigning being struck by the icebox.

"Jerr, I'm sorry." This isn't the stage and Dean's roughness is short-lived. He doted on the younger man. Without thinking, his lips come to Jerry's forehead before he turns him gently, and runs a soft, inquisitive hand over where he thinks Jerry's been struck. Jerry waits until his back is turned and then he allows a smile to creep across his face.

"I'll get you some ice," Dean already has a clean dish towel on the counter and is emptying an entire ice tray into it. He returns to Jerry, homemade ice pack clutched in one hand, "where did I hurt you?"

Jerry whimpered when Dean ran his hand over the back of his head.

"Right here," Jerry replied in a child-like voice, pointing to a knick in the near center of the back of his head, the barber had done it a week back and Dean ribbed him about for days.

Dean didn't even bother recoiling or showing his shock, just tucked a corner of the dish towel in Jerry collar and made sure to release the cold flurry as Jerry began snickering and turned to him for an embrace which, as soon as the cold hit him, turned into a swatting, laughing, flail of arms as Jerry attempted to strike him and Dean kept reaching over Jerry to tug and pull at the younger man’s shirt, driving the pieces of ice to unassailed portions of skin.

Their fracas was heard outside and soon the children had rushed in to join what was now becoming an ice fight. What had not melted on Jerry’s skin was then quickly snatched up by the slipping, giggling hands of children as they rushed back outside, laughing and lobbing pieces of cold at one another. Dean had already busied himself at drying the spots on the floor as Jerry finally got around to popping the top on their drinks.

When Dean stood, dropping the rag into the kitchen sink, Jerry’s smile had faded and he was looking at Dean with such, what was it? Sadness, longing, or something else entirely, Dean wasn’t sure.

“Why the frown, Jerr? I didn’t hurt you this time did I?”

Jerry shook his head.

“What then?”

“I wish I could give you all of this, that you didn’t need anyone other than me,” Jerry feels foolish and like he might just break when Dean closes the distance between them and wraps his arms tightly around the young man.

Dean turns them out of the eye line of the large picture window that faced their families and brings his lips to Jerry’s putting his entire heart behind it. The intensity of the kiss pulls away all that was left of Jerry’s composure. He wanted to cry. Instead, he did his best to shove Dean away.

“Not here-“

Dean interrupted by pulling him close under one arm, looking out at their families, enjoying the best of what this beautiful, sunny time could offer. If either of the women were to look back they would see two sentimental friends, arm in arm admiring their hard-won domain. From that far away they couldn’t see the shine of Jerry’s eyes as tears gathered, threatening to fall at Dean’s next words.

“You’re right, Jerr, not here,” He ruffled Jerry’s hair, and then let his hand drop to Jerry’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Dean was at a loss for words but that wasn’t really it. The words were too many to choose from, too many things to express, and no way to offer them in the order he wanted to give them; Dean was drowning in words. But he let the uneasiness hang between them, Jerry was young and wouldn’t brood over it for long. They wouldn’t be apart for long, either.

That’s where the ring came in.

Dean had endured a week of dead air between them and it was beginning to physically hurt. Then out of the blue, a call, a summons to rehearse, and the assurance of privacy, and Dean was ready with the box tucked in his jacket pocket, he’d alternated it in to every coat he wore for a week. Dean was prepared but far from ready.

Dean couldn't recall all of the sweet words they'd exchanged that night but he knew what it meant to slip that ring around that slender finger.

Though, Dean knew what it meant too when they'd taken to the stage and Jerry grabbed for him but with bare fingers, save all but Jerry's wedding band.

 

 

After a night like they’d had it was only a matter of time before Frank lost his cool.

Another big-mouth reporter who’d been following them around all weekend, finally decided to speak up and boy, did he ever put his foot in his mouth. Well, if the paparazzo didn’t feel that way Frank looked like he was set to shove both of the man’s feet down his throat.

When Dean’s eyes scanned the surroundings for the others that had been walking with them they’d all skedaddled in one direction or the other. As Dean’s head turned back to the paparazzo, the loud smack of hand to skull caught Dean’s ear and whipped his head ‘round and into focus.

Frank had thrown the first punch and the loud-mouth reporter was knocked back but then came back ready to draw blood.

Later, Dean would say he stepped in to separate the men and just happened to intercept that man’s flimsy right hook. He just hoped that the man that now lay sprawled on the gaudy casino carpet would not come to and remember the two rapid strikes that laid him out before he could make another play for Frank’s face.

Dean sure would remember that loud-mouth, alright. He’d not busted a knuckle since those rent-raising bouts he’d held with his roommate before he’d met Jerry and damn, did it ever hurt!

Dean lifted the glass of brown liquid and ice to his lips. Frank had slowly come down to reality, occasionally fuming and cursing a blue streak into his glass before he refilled it and began conversing about something meaningless. Dean had fished some of the ice from his glass and had it pressed against the stiff and swelling joint.

Dean couldn’t bring himself to take off that ring but now it looked like he’d have to if he didn’t want it imbedded in his skin for keeps.

“God damnit!” Dean swore and he ran the ice over the finger and then gave a sharp pull to the offending ring.

"Why d’you still wear that?," Frank asked.

“Ah, come on, Frankie, not now,” Dean said shaking his head before swallowing the rest of his drink.

Frank approached the deep chair that Dean was sat in. Frank had brought over the bottle of alcohol and the bucket of ice and sat himself on the ottoman across from the other man. Frank extended the decanter first but Dean shook his head and grabbed the bucket of ice from him, pausing to extend it to Frank. When Frank shook his head, Dean shoved his entire hand into the bucket and hissed through his teeth at the cold relief.

“Was it your idea or his?” Frank would not be steered away from the idea but he didn’t mean to dig at his friend either.

"Don't mean nothin' anymore," Dean replied, intoning the sound of the old neighborhood.

"You still his?" There was nothing about Frank’s tone that would indicate he was horsing around, not when his eyes narrowed like that and the blue became so dark they were almost flint.

Dean shook his head and that needed no clarification.

He and Frank never made it back onto the casino floor. The cops had been called and of course, whether it was for an autograph for the little woman or an actual statement, they insisted on detaining them both. Frank’s people arrived shortly after and this was the first time Dean had witnessed problems just going away. Dean sounded sober and rock-solid and his words fell perfectly in line with Frank’s statement, as if they were to halves of the same coin even when they were apart.

More men filtered through the room taking problems and cops with them as they went. Somehow the man who’d been out for the count not long before was getting hauled off to jail.

Finally, the room cleared. Frank was sat in Dean’s chair, the ice had melted, and a doctor had come up to wrap Dean’s hand. When Dean looked over at Frank he’d been staring in Dean’s direction but not the same ice-cold gaze but the soft blue of tropical waters that beckoned.

There wasn’t much night left but it would take Frank the rest of what remained before the rage that bubbled just below the surface would dissipate. Even so, the first kiss was forceful and biting. Each time Dean made to gain the upper hand he was met with a shove back into the soft, cool sheets of their bed or the arc of ecstatic pain when Frank’s mouth or hands found just the point to worry until sinking in his teeth.

It was when it ceased to be a tussle, when there was no way of explaining away the compromising situation that Frank grew serious and disarmingly soft and sweet.

Frank was cool even as Dean found his control falling apart.

“Oh god! Frank, please.”

“Anything you want, doll, just say it,” Soft, teasing, and Dean felt like he was going to burn up if Frank kept at it.

“Please?”

“You’re mine,” It was a statement just as much as it was a question. Frank’s eyes held his and would not let go as he worked them both toward the edge.

“Yes,” Dean whispered leaning up to kiss him.

“You’re mine,” Frank purred as he took them both over the edge.

The ring with the black stone sat discard by the bucket full of melting ice. After that night, Dean never saw the ring again.

 

 

Frank kept his word and the problems kept getting out of their way, one way or the other, and Dean could always be trusted to put up or shut up when the heat shifted in his direction.

The first night Dean’s show opened he found a small, plain box sitting on his dressing room table. Inside the box was a ring, a Roman coin imprinted on a gold band. This wasn’t Frank professing his love. No, this was something different. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by more than could ever drive them apart.

He could hear the words of his partner echoing in his ear.

You’ve really made it now.


End file.
